


Butterfly Wings and Breathless Things

by patiently_yours



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patiently_yours/pseuds/patiently_yours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack lingers after the dinner he and Phryne share at the end of 1x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Wings and Breathless Things

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters or anything save for this story. This is my first attempt at writing MFMM, but I've been enjoying all of your works for a few weeks now. They're brilliant!

The first time he caught her stock-still was in the quiet after their one-candle-lit dinner together, when the witty banter had died down, the plates been cleared away, and they’d migrated to the parlour. Her teasing had held a note of sadness all night, just subtle enough to pique his curiosity, and he had to admit that he wasn’t exactly disappointed to find out that Mr. Lin would be spending his life with a warrior woman whose last name was not Fisher.

But Phryne’s solemnity at the oddest turns had sobered him, and Jack felt at a loss to know what to do. On the one hand, her quiet was a refreshing change. It gave him the chance to catalogue everything that she chose to communicate, instead of leaving him racing for comprehension. But on the other hand, her gaiety and willingness to shrug off personal melancholy in favour of wreaking havoc with others’ sanity was one of her traits that he found most tantalising. 

When he caught her arm in the lamplight, he had not followed his thoughts all the way through to completion. He slowly uncurled her fingers from the stem of her martini glass, giving her the chance to stop him, to up the stakes, to smirk and arch an eyebrow and tease him about his intentions.

But Phryne remained completely still. 

She looked him in the eyes, but her gaze held no challenge, only mute curiousity, and Jack had dropped her gaze and turned over her arm, inspecting the translucent skin of her forearms. Her veins ran blue in stark contrast to the smooth white skin, all of the way from her fingers to her elbow, and Jack pushed back her gold sleeve to see more of them. He traced them with his fingers, mesmerised by this show of fragility in the strongest woman he knew. 

As closely as he was observing her, he felt the jump in the pulse at her wrist as his fingers skimmed lightly over her arm. It was the flutter of wings when a butterfly has been caught, and like catching a butterfly, Jack knew that he had to hold Phryne loosely if he wanted to hold her at all. To hold her tightly would be to crush her, to tear her wings and inspire her to fight in outrage at being restrained by a man who had no business taking what had never been offered.

But for now she was still, willing to let him indulge his curiousity, and when his fingertips reached the inside of her elbow, the giggle that she emitted as she squirmed away sent his heart straight to his throat and his blood in the opposite direction. 

“Ticklish, Miss Fisher?” he asked drily, raising one eyebrow at her. 

Phryne smirked then and tried to pull her arm away, the moment of quiet give and take broken, but Jack continued to hold her. He ran his fingers over the same spot inside of her elbow again, and this time she bit her lip to keep her laughter from bubbling out.

“You’re not playing fair, Detective Inspector,” she said when she had caught her breath.

“Then it seems we’re back to the age-old saga of the pot and the kettle,” he replied, finally letting go of her.

Phryne had regained her equilibrium by then, and she tangled her fingers in Jack’s waistcoat and smiled up at him mischievously. 

“You’re just lucky that you didn’t try that trick on my feet; if I were to kill you, who would solve your murder?” she asked him, her fingertips lingering for a moment too long on his shirt before she straightened the creases her fingers had left.

“It looks like you would get away with it,” said Jack in a low voice, all too aware of his heart fairly beating out of his chest. He knew that she could feel it, and when she raised her eyebrow at him and reached out to smooth her thumb across his cheek, he knew that he needed another drink if he was going to follow her down this path. “But it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten away with murder.”


End file.
